


Re-writing Destiny

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mention of Minor Injuries, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 16:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20492111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Is love strong enough to take an angel back in time and let him change destiny? When Aziraphale finds himself standing in Heaven, watching Crowley fall, that's exactly what he believes he can do. But will Crowley feel the same way?





	Re-writing Destiny

Aziraphale is more than a little confused when he finds himself back among the clouds, hovering effortlessly in the cornflower blue sky.

There’s an eeriness to being aloft in the Heavens.

The air is still here.

There is no breeze.

Nothing moves up here, nothing lives up here, and yet he can feel the weight of a multitude of souls lending their energy to the universe. It creates a sort of hum that’s ever-present, reminds you that no matter where you are, you are never truly alone.

Some might describe that as comforting. Aziraphale probably has, too.

But not anymore. Not now.

He feels anxious wrapped up in it, expectant.

Tense with anticipation.

When the Earth was new, Aziraphale spent much of his time here, and he was perfectly content. He didn’t know enough to care, hadn’t experienced the rich diversity of life to know that up here in the clouds, with celestial harmonies weaving through his ears, wasn’t even close to living. He was an angel. Overseeing the birth of the world from afar was his job.

But Earth has long since passed its infancy and is well on its way to a problematic adolescence.

So what was he doing here?

“Do I know this?” Aziraphale asks himself, searching the clouds around him. “I … I know where I am, but this can’t be ... No, it can’t possibly be …”

His heart, or what counts as a heart in the chest of an angel, lurches uncomfortably. He can’t be here. Definitely not. This happened 6000 years ago! As far as he’s concerned, it’s 2019. Just yesterday he had cheesecake and espresso at the diner down the street.

With Crowley.

But none of those things exist right now - not the cheesecake, not the espresso, not the diner.

But Crowley does. Crowley _should_.

Aziraphale looks at himself, examines his clothes – his simple robes as opposed to his usual favorite coat, his hands and wings white like they've never been to Earth, never been exposed to dirt or pollution. He rubs his fingers together. Nope, no trace of grime at all.

Earth pollution is a curious thing. It sticks to the flesh and never seems to disappear. No amount of washing of miracling can erase it completely away. It lasts regardless, staining the skin on a level completely unseen, but which adds a certain heaviness to the soul.

Angels unaccustomed to life on Earth often avoid it because it makes them sad.

Aziraphale should be coated in it, especially his wings, but he can’t find any evidence of it on him.

That clinches it.

He's gone back in time. He must have.

And Crowley should be here.

Not just during this period in time, but up _here_.

In Heaven.

Aziraphale wasn’t around when it happened. He wasn’t really anywhere. Or if he was, he has no recollection. But he’s here now, it seems, and he has to ask himself why?

But fate doesn’t give him time to ponder that question.

A crack of thunder drowns out the lilting music.

A blinding bolt lights up the sky.

The screaming of angels, their jeering – and in some cases, their _laughing_ – floods his ears.

Aziraphale spins, tries to pinpoint where the commotion is coming from. It should be simple to find up here amidst all this blue, but once the flash of light dies down, he sees only white – a vast plane of it, stretching out on all sides like a blanket pulled tight across the Heavens. It covers everything except for a disturbance in the distance – a brief shift of color that pulls his attention to it. It takes shape as he watches it, becomes recognizable.

It’s human – or human _formed_ \- in a torn robe, singed at the hem, and fluttering behind him at odd, unnatural angles …

… a pair of broken wings.

But it’s the dark hair that turns fire-red that confirms his suspicions, and a cry of, “No!” lodges in his throat.

Aziraphale takes off in his direction, flying as fast as he can to catch the angel falling from the sky. Arms outstretched, he comes up beneath him, and Crowley lands heavily in his arms.

“I’ve got you,” Aziraphale mutters as he speeds off, trying to find a spot far enough away from this one to lay Crowley down. “Don’t worry. You’re safe now. I won’t let you go.”

Crowley fights to lift the head lolling back on his shoulders. He’s badly bruised - one eye starting to purple, the front of his robe torn down the front from his neck to his sternum, like he was grabbed and punched. _He looks like he’s been in a bar fight_, Aziraphale thinks. It’s an awkward analogy to make at this particular moment, but it breaks the tension enough to allow him a smile.

But there are burns, too – a spray of them emanating from a circular scorch mark on his abdomen, as if that flash of lightning Aziraphale saw earlier didn’t just hit him, it went through him.

And his wings.

_Oh God_, his wings!

They’re definitely snapped in more places than one, as if many hands had grabbed them and tried to tear them from his body.

For all the injuries Aziraphale can see, and the ones he can’t, his soul aches for him.

Crowley blinks, dazed and confused, an accurate visual of the way Aziraphale felt when he realized where he was.

“Aziraphale? What---?” Crowley looks around him at the clouds and sky, and then at the angel who stopped his momentum. “Why are you … why are you here?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” Aziraphale says, lighting onto a nearby cloud and setting Crowley down there. He miracles the surface to ensure Crowley won’t fall through.

Crowley is fallen now. Aziraphale’s not certain the clouds will support him.

“But I’ve got you. Don’t worry. I’m not going to let you fall.”

“But I _did_ fall,” Crowley slurs, coming to his senses. “You can’t stop that. You can’t … you can’t change it.”

“If I can’t, why am I here?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley admits. “But it’s a mistake. It has to be.”

“Why does it have to be? Maybe this is an opportunity!” Aziraphale decides, the idea coming to him on the fly, but making all the sense in the world. “And maybe it’s been given to us now because we’ve finally admitted that we love one another.”

Crowley gives his angel the benefit of thinking it over, even smiling for a beat, but too quickly, he shakes his head. “You don’t know that.”

“No, but you don’t know that it isn’t! I’m an angel of _love_! My entire existence is _love _– inspiring love, spreading love. And if there’s one thing I know, love can change things. Love has the power to change the entire world, doesn’t it?”

“I’d like to believe so,” Crowley says sadly. Because he doesn’t believe. Not as passionately as Aziraphale does.

“What if one act of love can re-write history?”

“That would be _incredible_,” Crowley agrees, thoughts he’d entertained previously, ones similar to those in Aziraphale’s mind, swirling through his brain. Aziraphale can see it in his eyes – beautiful, shattered eyes that change to the yellow slitted eyes of a serpent the longer they sit discussing this. Crowley stares at Aziraphale, wishing he could give him the hope he’s clinging so desperately to, but he can’t. He sighs. Breaking Aziraphale’s heart has never been easy. He wishes he didn’t have to. But what he wants is never going to happen. “But I … I don’t want it.”

“What? _Why_?” Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s shoulders and gives him a frustrated shake. “You have nothing to lose and everything to gain!”

“I could lose _you_, Aziraphale! We’ve spent an amazing 6000 years knowing one another! Do you remember me in Heaven at all? Remember one moment before I fell where you knew me?”

“I …” Aziraphale stammers. He would rather be confident in his answer, but he doesn’t have a confident answer to give. “I, uh … no, not exactly …”

“That’s right. You don’t. And neither do I. It doesn’t mean we didn’t, but it doesn’t mean we _did_. The chances of us never meeting if I start over again as an angel in heaven are too high. I … I can’t risk it. I don’t want to.”

“But there’s no reason you should remain a demon! You’ve done so much good on Earth! You’ve performed so many blessings! You’ve more than made up for what you’ve done!”

“For what I …?” Crowley’s lips twist in a heartbroken frown. It’s not Aziraphale’s fault. It’s a consequence of being an angel - a tendency to see things in only black and white. But Aziraphale is different. He sees the grey, too. From time to time, he comes across a shade so subtle, he does need it pointed out to him. Up here in the clouds, in such close proximity to Heavenly influences, he’s most likely overwhelmed by the moral binary. “Tell me I was wrong, Aziraphale.”

“What?”

“I was cast out of Heaven for asking questions. That’s all I did, angel. I wanted to know _why_. I questioned God’s plan. Tell me I was wrong. Tell me I deserved it, and I’ll go back. I will. I’ll get down on my hands and knees before God and I’ll beg for Her forgiveness. Just say the word.”

“You’re leaving this up to me?”

“There’s no one else in all of Heaven and Hell and everywhere in between that I trust more than you. You are the most clever person I have ever met. So if you tell me I did something wrong, I’ll go with you. I promise. Just tell me … was I wrong?”

Aziraphale swallows hard.

This isn’t a decision he feels qualified to make.

Before he was sent to Earth, he received many stern lectures from the Archangels over the nature of right and wrong, good and bad. Part of that lecturing included the subject of angels and demons. According to the Archangels, there are two sides and only two. Nothing in between. But those angels who preach segregation have never lived on Earth, not the way Aziraphale has. They’ve never watched firsthand the manner in which God’s creations grow and adapt to change. Many of them turn their noses up at him, call him _native_ as if it’s a slur, but it’s not. What Aziraphale has become isn’t wholly bad … but it’s not wholly good either.

It’s evolved.

And that goes for Crowley, too. The only difference is he seemed to figure it out long before any of them, and because he did, he dared to question.

He wasn’t wrong. He was _revolutionary_.

Aziraphale smiles. There’s a bittersweet irony to that word.

It fits Crowley so well.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No. You didn’t deserve it. Asking questions, being curious, even putting God’s plan to task … that’s no reason to lose God’s love. You were the son of dawn. You helped put the stars in the sky. You weren’t a demon, Crowley. She created one.”

Crowley nods, grateful that Aziraphale sees it that way. Crowley can endure the slings and arrows of angels and demons as long as his angel sees him for what he truly is. “Then I have to fall.”

“No!” Aziraphale gasps. “But, Crowley …!”

“No, angel. You can’t re-write this one. I have to fall, and this time … you can’t catch me.”

“But, Crowley …” Aziraphale wants to reason with him, wants to convince him to say.

Crowley snaps his fingers. Whether it’s one final angelic act or his first demonic one, Aziraphale doesn’t know, but the miracled cloud opens up beneath him and Crowley drops through the sky.

Aziraphale watches him go, plummeting through the air and into the blue.

“It’s what must be done,” he says to himself, fighting back tears, then repeats it over and over. “It’s what he wants. He knows what he’s doing. It must be done.”

But every tear that slips from his eyes convinces him different.

Crowley doesn’t deserve to go to Hell.

He doesn’t deserve to be used as an agent of Evil.

He’s being forced. He’s not being given a choice.

He’s being forced.

It’s that realization ringing through his ears that he follows, soaring straight down like a falling star in an effort to catch up, using a miracle to pick up speed until he’s falling so fast, he feels the feathers of his wings try to pull from his bones.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale calls out with his mind since his lips won’t move, his voice won’t carry. “I can’t do it! I can’t let you fall! I’m coming for you!”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley cries, his thoughts floating into Aziraphale’s mind. “What the Devil are you doing!?”

“I can’t let you do this! I know what you said, and you’re right, but you don’t deserve to fall!”

“Let me go, Aziraphale!”

“No!” Aziraphale folds his wings back against his body as close as he can. “I can’t … let … this … happen! You … don’t … deserve …!”

“Aziraphale! _No_!”

Aziraphale sees the Earth rushing toward them, coming faster and faster – faster than he can think. He can’t seem to miracle Crowley to a stop so he reacts on a mortal instinct and reaches out a hand to catch him before he hits the ground.

But seconds from impact, Aziraphale discovers that hitting the ground wasn’t what he needed to fear.

The air around them starts to heat as a portal to Hell opens up, fingers of flame reaching out to capture Crowley and devour him. They’ll probably take him, too, and at this point, he’d let them. He’d hold on to Crowley with both hands and fight the forces of Hell to get him back.

He’s confronted Hell before to save Crowley’s life. He’s prepared to do it again.

Aziraphale reaches harder, his arm nearly pulling from its socket as he strains to touch his demon. Their fingers brush, fingertips curling into one another, but not enough to grab hold.

“I can do this!” he says. “I can do this! I can do this! I have faith!”

Flame shoots higher and Hellfire surrounds them. It burns Aziraphale’s face, his eyes, his nose. It crawls beneath his skin, disintegrates him from the inside, but he keeps on. Closer and closer. He can almost make it. He’s almost there. He feels a hand close around his, one of heat and bone. And then …

Aziraphale flails before he opens his eyes.

He sits upright, breathing fast, the memory of blistering heat burning away his eyes and his nose overridden by sweet, fresh air flooding his sinuses and causing his eyes to water. He almost flies straight up, but the hand holding his tethers him to the here and now, makes him aware of his surroundings.

“Crowley!” he coughs, his throat dry, his mind frantic. “Crowley! Crowley!”

Aziraphale looks around him.

He’s sitting on a blanket of white, but he’s not up in the clouds.

He’s in Crowley’s room. He recognizes the dark walls and floor, the black-curtained windows not letting in an inch of light. The only thing white are the sheets on the bed which Crowley miracled special just for him. And the hand holding his, the one of heat and bone, is Crowley’s hand.

And he’s squeezing it to death.

“It was a dream! It was just a dream!” He laughs hollowly. “Oh merciful Heaven! It was just a dream!”

Crowley stirs. He rolls towards him and sits up. He lets Aziraphale keep the one hand and runs his free hand through his hair, blinking questioningly at the expression of relief on Aziraphale’s face.

“You al’right?” he asks, tired golden eyes shining in the dark.

“Yes. Yes, I am. I’m sorry if I woke you. I had a bad dream.”

“Looks like it. W’at was it about?”

“It was …” Aziraphale stops. He wants to tell Crowley. He wants to tell him _everything_, but even if it was just a dream, it’s one where his mind inserted himself into a sore subject. Aziraphale doesn’t feel right bringing it up. “I … I don’t know if I should tell you because it was … well, it was … it was about … you.”

“What about me?”

“I … I don’t think I should …”

“Aziraphale, it’s all right, love.” Crowley brings his angel’s hand to his lips and kisses it. “You can tell me anything.”

“All right,” Aziraphale says, straightening in bed. “If you say so. Just … please … don’t get mad.”

“I won’t.” Crowley clumsily crosses his heart with their joined hands. “I promise.”

“Well, uh … okay. You had … well, you had … _fallen_.” Aziraphale cringes at the word, and the way it makes Crowley’s eyes open wider. “And I managed to, somehow, catch you and I …”

Crowley interrupts his angel with a kiss.

He moves forward quickly, like a snake – Aziraphale likens it to. In the space of a single blink, he puts a hand to Aziraphale’s cheek and kisses him. It’s gentle but urgent, Crowley sliding further forward to wrap an arm around Aziraphale and hold him, both kiss and embrace translating a wealth of heartache and pain. Aziraphale puts his arms around his demon, holding on to him for support as Crowley lowers him back to his pillows on the bed.

Crowley doesn’t go farther than that, breaking the kiss with tears in his eyes as he rests his forehead against his angel’s.

“I couldn’t let you,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t risk it ...”

“I don’t … I don’t understand,” Aziraphale says, flustered by Crowley’s sudden display of affection and emotion. And his confession that, in the dark enclosure of his room, doesn’t make sense. “What was that about? What … what was it for?”

“For you being you,” Crowley says against Aziraphale’s mouth, whispering to avoid Aziraphale hearing the cracks in his voice. “The wonderful, albeit misguided, creature you are … who tried to snatch a demon back from Hell and carry him to Heaven.”


End file.
